The Categorical Universe of Candice Phee (11 page)

Was the person intending to enter the dog or was it against that person's will? If the latter, then it is unlikely that the person would a) be carrying a book and b) have the composure to read once he or she was inside the dog (presumably within the stomach)? Even I, who love reading, would be looking for escape, rather than curling up for a good read. If, on the other hand, the person entered the dog willingly, book in hand, then we would reasonably expect him or her to have the foresight to be carrying a flashlight, or one of those battery-operated lights that clip onto the page.

I know you will accuse me of being too literal, but I can't stop questions from entering my mind where they worry away at me until answered satisfactorily.

Yours,

Candice Phee

Of course, she only laughed when she read it
.

I digress, but only slightly
.

You see, it appears I can make people laugh without intending to. I gave my teacher an eye patch to solve the out-of-control eyeball problem. She laughed. I tried to re-create New Orleans in our dining room for my mother. She laughed. Laughter is good. Laughter is wonderful. I often don't understand where it comes from, but I like the effect it produces
.

My family does not have enough laughter in it. All the laughter evaporated when my sister died
.

Anyway, I don't know how I make people laugh, but I want to continue doing it
.

The thing is, although laughter might be the best medicine, it cannot cure the cancer that took my mother's breasts, it cannot cure sudden infant death syndrome, it cannot cure depression, and it cannot cure the bitterness within two brothers' hearts. It cannot move us back in time to when all was well
.

I don't know how to do these things, but I know I must try. The laughter will be a bonus
.

There is another problem that has been weighing heavily on me recently, and it concerns another friend I have already referred to. Earth-Pig Fish. You may remember that, in a previous letter, I told you my concerns regarding her religious temperament and how she might regard me as a deity on account of my occasional seemingly mystical appearances where wonders are performed (like fish food on the surface of the water—a sort of fishy manna)
.

I do not want to be God to Earth-Pig Fish. I want to be her friend. What if she is praying to me to grant her immortality? I cannot do that (mind you, neither can God, apparently, but I'd feel guilty whereas He, it seems, doesn't). What if she believes that if she does die, she will be brought, in a fanfare of heavenly trumpets, to my bosom and live in eternal bliss when in actual fact she's almost certainly destined to be flushed down the toilet?

I want Earth-Pig Fish to become an atheist
.

I do not know how to do this
.

It occurs to me that I could remove myself from her consciousness by wrapping her bowl in black plastic, but this would also condemn her to darkness (and would she then interpret that as a form of hell for sins unknowingly committed?). So I have been considering developing an automatic feeding system whereby her granules are dispensed daily but without human involvement. I am not mechanically minded, but I suspect Douglas Benson from Another Dimension, who is a scientist, might help. Of course, this raises another problem. How can I be her friend if she doesn't know I exist? Maybe I could be her friend regardless—invisible, but doing the right thing by her, looking out for her from a distance, catering to her every need, and ensuring her world is comfortable and secure
.

The trouble is that sounds like I am setting myself up as God, which brings me full circle
.

Americans know about religion, I have been assured, so I welcome your theological insights
.

Your pen pal
,

Candice

Today is Friday, June 14.

I will be thirteen on Sunday. I am looking forward to that. Twelve seems very young, whereas thirteen carries with it the implication that you have completed your apprenticeship as a child and can do teenager-y type things without appearing a fraud. Not that I think I will be able to do teenager-y type things.

Jen Marshall can.

Remember Jen Marshall? (See “A Is for Assignment.”)

She has a tattoo.

She has a pierced belly button.

She wears eye makeup.

She has hickeys.

She has in-your-face boobs.

She has an iPhone in one hand and an iPod in the other.

She is permanently bored.

It is rumored she drinks a lot of cider.

All the girls in my class want to be just like her.

I, meanwhile, have a flat chest and a persnickety pencil case.

Not only does no one want to be
just
like me, no one wants to be
anything
like me. And who can blame them?

A few years ago, I used to dread my birthday. Mum and Dad would go to considerable effort to make it a happy occasion. There would be streamers around the house and a cake with candles. Nicely wrapped presents.

But there were always two dark and brooding clouds looming over us. One was Rich Uncle Brian, even though he doesn't
look
much like a cloud, dark, brooding, or otherwise. Mum and Dad never had much money, but they would buy lovely gifts for my birthday—pens, dictionaries, sensible shoes, fluffy socks. I enjoyed unwrapping them. Rich Uncle Brian has loads of money and bought me an expensive sound system (that I never used) and a plasma TV (that I never plugged in) and glittering jewelry (that I never wore). Dad would gaze from his present (nice gel pens) to Rich Uncle Brian's present (a limited-edition solid-gold Cartier fountain pen) and his face would sag, like he was carrying two kilos of potatoes in it. He'd smile, but it came out crooked. Within minutes, he would wander back to his shed, muttering darkly. My birthday would effectively be over.

Two years ago, however, I took Rich Uncle Brian to one side and we had a frank conversation.

“I do not want you to buy me any more birthday presents, Rich Uncle Brian.”

His face sagged. That probably wasn't his fault. There must be a dominant gene responsible for face-sagging that runs on the male side of the family.

“Why ever not, Pumpkin?”

“Because you are a dark and brooding cloud, Rich Uncle Brian,” I said. “I speak metaphorically. No offense.”

He sighed and gazed at me with eyes of liquidy sadness. He stroked his mustache. He jingled coins in his pocket. I felt the need to clarify.

“I'm a gel pen kind of girl, Rich Uncle Brian, rather than a solid-gold Cartier fountain pen kind of girl. Your presents are too expensive.”

“I can afford them.”

“But I can't afford to receive them.”

“You want me to buy you gel pens?”

“No. Dad buys me gel pens. It's what he does.”

“So what, then?” He spread his arms wide. “I can't not buy you anything, Pumpkin. You're my only niece and I love you.”

I considered his point and deemed it fair.

“Give money to charity on my behalf,” I said. “There are starving children all over the world. Save lives, Rich Uncle Brian, rather than giving me things I don't want and can't use. That would be the best present.”

There was some argument. RUB likes things you can see and touch and hear and smell. Preferably expensive things. He wasn't impressed with the idea of saving the
lives of people he had never met. You couldn't see, touch, hear, or smell that kind of present.

But I got my way. Now I receive regular reports on irrigation projects in Africa, educational programs in Asia, and improved health outcomes in remote indigenous communities. They are better than gel pens, and that is saying a lot.

So. One dark and brooding cloud dissolved, but another remains.

My sister, Sky, died on the fifteenth of June. Tomorrow is the anniversary of her death. She would have been seven.

No one has ever discussed this, no one has drawn up a plan or a schedule, but, over the years, a routine has been established for the anniversary of Sky's death. On the Saturday closest to the date (and tomorrow coincides exactly) we dress in our best somber clothes. We drive to the cemetery. We spend a few hours at her gravestone. If it is sunny, we spread out a blanket on the grass. If it is raining, we take camping chairs and umbrellas. Dad paces back and forth, back and forth, and doesn't say anything. Mum cries, normally without making a sound. I watch them, go for a walk, and wait for time to pass. It always does. Eventually. Then we drive home and Mum retreats to her room, Dad retreats to his shed, and I retreat to my dictionary or Dickens. Very often not one of us has exchanged a word with anyone else.

Mum pushed a bowl of cereal toward me. Dad had left for work and I had half an hour before the bus for school.
Mum was still in her robe, and I had the clear impression she'd stay in it for the rest of the day. The bags under her eyes were enormous and heavy. They needed wheels and pull-up handles.

“What do you want for your birthday, Pumpkin?” she asked.

“Can I have anything?”

She busied herself with the teapot.

“Within reason. You know we don't have much money.”

“This won't cost anything. I would like Douglas Benson from Another Dimension to come with us to the cemetery tomorrow.”

Mum put the teapot down. She had her back to me, but I could tell her body had tensed. She was as inflexible as wood. Silence stretched.

“No,” she said finally. Just one word, squeezed out, hard and cold.

“Why not?”

She turned toward me and put fingers to the corners of her eyes. Rubbed, like there was a pain there somewhere.

“You know why, Candice,” she said. “Pumpkin” had been abandoned in favor of “Candice.” This was not a good sign. “Family only. We do not invite friends. We do not have a party. We do not celebrate. We pay our respects.”

Most times, I let Mum get away with this. I avoid confrontation because it is always ugly and best avoided. But today, for some reason, I felt the need to argue.

“So why don't we invite Rich Uncle Brian, then?” I asked. “If it is a family-only thing.”

“And you know the answer to that as well, Candice,” she snapped. “Do not be deliberately stupid.”

“Why can't we celebrate?” I added. I knew this conversation was headed for disaster, but I couldn't stop myself. “Sky should be celebrated . . .”

“Her name was Frances.”

“. . . it should be a cause of joy that she lived, not an excuse for misery because she's dead. I am tired of feeling sad, Mum. I am glad I knew her, but she's gone . . .”

“Please stop, Candice.”

“. . . and it's time you accepted that. Sky is dead, Mum, but we aren't . . .”

“SHUT UP!” I had no time to duck and it probably would have done me no good if I had. The teapot missed my head by a few centimeters and smashed against the wall behind me. It exploded, and I felt the prick of porcelain shards against my neck. The shattered handle rolled between my feet, rocked a moment or two, and then was still. I raised a hand to my neck and plucked a small sliver from my skin. A thin smear of blood glistened on my index finger.

Mum put a hand to her mouth. Her eyes were wide. We looked at each other for what seemed like minutes, but was probably only a second or two.

“I'm going to school,” I said. I picked up my backpack and headed for the door. Mum remained frozen, but as I left the kitchen she shuddered and rushed after me.

“Candice,” she said at the front door. But I was already halfway down the path.

“Candice, please. I'm sorry, Pumpkin.”

I said nothing. I didn't turn back. Not because I was angry with Mum. Not because I didn't want us to make up. I kept walking because I didn't want her to see the tears in my eyes. And I didn't want to see those that I knew were in hers.